


For the Record

by violenteer



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-06-20 19:03:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15540936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violenteer/pseuds/violenteer
Summary: “We can stop now if you want.” Miles tells him.“I don’t want to stop now.” Waylon rebuffs.





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you think this obsession benefits you in any way?” Miles asks mildly.

He and Waylon are halfway through their bi-weekly session, and as has almost always happened, Waylon has fallen into short answers. He doesn’t look up and meet Miles eyes, choosing instead to focus on the double-knot of his shoelaces. Miles is usually able to understand where his patients would tune out. With Waylon, though, the answer seems to be different each time.

“It’s not that much of an obsession. Anymore.” Waylon answers, electing to keep his voice soft.

Miles blinks before settling a little further into his chair. He’d bought the thing at Ikea years ago and had yet to update his office furnishings. Some have mentioned that they like that about him. It’s not rare for Miles to treat those who grow anxious when a place they come to for stability changes. Miles doesn’t think Waylon would be caught off guard by a change of scenery, but then he is quite different from Miles’ usual clientele.

“I agree. But it is something you’ve held onto for a long time, and Eddie’s recent incarceration is on your mind.”

Waylon looks up as if he was just told to go to hell.

“It’s been on mine too.” Miles clarifies.

He likes to smooth out rough edges before anyone has the chance of getting cut. Waylon has too many of his own barbs already. His anxiety, irritability, paranoia, anger; bloodlust for the people who’ve hurt him.

Miles can see all of it clear as day in Waylon’s eyes. What he wants is written into his fingertips, leaving intention on everything they touch.

“What do you want me to say?” Waylon hazards finally.

From the way he’s been tracing the arms of his own chair Miles knew that he’d been chewing on how to respond for a while. Waylon is overly cautious at some points. Then not cautious at all at others.

“I visited him and he said he was doing better. He even said he was lucid. He said the word lucid. Like he knew what he was talking about.”

Never mind that Waylon had told Miles this before. Never mind that he sometimes did or didn’t mention how Eddie reached out to touch him, but only when it fit the angle he was trying to make Miles see.

“Maybe he thought he was.” Miles says for what must be the third time.

Waylon’s face pinches up like it does sometimes when they reach a stalemate.

“You could at least act like you give a shit.”

Miles is momentarily caught off guard. He glances down at his closed notebook and then back up at Waylon, head tilted somewhat in acknowledgement.

“I give a shit about you.” He eventually says, formality be damned.

They’re past it anyway.

“Well, I give a shit about this.”

“And I’m wondering why, after all this time, you refuse to put it to rest. Do you know?” Miles asks, less mildly now.

Waylon’s back stiffens. “If I did do you think I’d still be coming here? I’m hoping you can tell me. I get the five stages of grief. I’m… working through them. I’m trying to get past the anger, but it’s – it’s fucking – fucking hard.”

Eddie Gluskin leaves his own traces, much like Waylon’s need for retribution. His delusions have settled across Waylon’s skin like they belong. Waylon clings to them to find something. Miles isn’t sure what. But he does, and he thinks of Eddie more than he thinks of his children. Or his wife.

Miles would be the last to judge. He’s being honest when he says he’s concerned.

“I know.”

Waylon almost looks up at him but not quite. His eyes settle on Miles’ Adam’s apple instead.

“No one gets it. I don’t blame them but no one gets it.” Waylon says after a good chunk of time passes.

By _them_ , Miles knows Waylon is speaking about _him._ Waylon hasn’t gone to the trouble of explaining his obsession with Eddie Gluskin to anybody else. Where would that confession lead for someone like him? The most engaging victim of the Murkoff Massacre, Waylon has done his utmost to present himself as logical and infallible. His reputation hangs on the solid truth he delivered to the world via camera recordings back in 2013.

His family was kept out of the public eye and eventually disappeared completely. Both from the public record and from Waylon’s life. Waylon was left alone to stew in the mess he created for Murkoff, and doubly, the peace he brought to those who’d survived Mount Massive and its subsequent raid.

Miles can’t imagine what it’s like. It’s true. But he understands a little of obsession from what he tasted before, being a journalist himself. A long time ago though it was.

“We can stop now if you want.” Miles tells him.

“I don’t want to stop now.” Waylon rebuffs.

“Let’s get coffee.”

“Illegal.” Waylon rattles off.

A second later he’s smiling.

Miles smiles back and sets his book on his desk, recorder clicking off when he commands with a simple touch. His hands fold in between his legs and he looks at Waylon seriously. Still avoiding his eyes, Waylon bows his own head to check his watch.

It’s unfortunate. Obsession. There aren’t many ways around it, and Waylon’s taking the route he thinks will work for him. Miles wants to work for him. He thinks himself a good route. But not everything can change overnight, and with Eddie’s face plastered to every news channel and paper across the United States, it’s unlikely Waylon’s recovery will truncate any time soon.

“When’s your next appointment?” Waylon asks sheepishly.

He thinks of everything, and he thinks of everything too much. Miles blinks and recalls.

“You’re my last one.”

A short nod, and then Waylon’s getting up, stretching his arms and legs. His hands shake faintly when Miles sees him pull his phone from his pocket.

“Let’s make it drinks instead. At your place.”

Miles measures the look in Waylon’s eyes for a moment and then nods. Smiles.

“Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

The sun is creeping lower and lower in the sky by the time Miles opens his front door and ushers a less tense Waylon inside. His patient-turned-friend isn’t so uneasy anymore. His posture less pronounced, his hands unshaking where he grips the leather of his messenger bag. 

Waylon didn’t want to take his car, and Miles got the hint a moment later by acknowledging that carpooling was more environmentally conscious. So Waylon grabbed his bag from the back and slumped into the passenger seat of the Jeep. He didn’t mention what was inside, but the bag itself was slim. Miles was almost certain it was a laptop and, most likely, its charger. If there was anything else in there he would be shocked.

The shoe rack has never been used, but Miles makes an example of it by toeing his shoes off and kicking them closer to the contraption than he normally does. Waylon watches him with a little amusement in his expression. He doesn’t use the thing either. Miles wonders if he’s simply following his lead or if he can’t find it in himself to muster the energy.

“I don’t think I’ve asked before,” Miles began evenly, “do you have a favorite drink?”

He’d been a journalist before he was a therapist, and a dumbass private with a penchant for drowning his life out before that. So Miles is familiar with booze. He has a little cart now that he's sufficiently paid. His ex-girlfriend left it behind and Miles never thought to ask if she wanted it. A part of him figures she would have taken the cart if she cared. She isn’t normally one to mince words.

“I like screwdrivers.” Waylon answers, nose scrunching up.

“Screwdrivers.” Miles repeats.

Inwardly, he's racking his brain to figure out whether or not he has any form of juice in the house, let alone orange juice.

“Lisa got me into them when we first met. And I never really moved on, I guess.” He shrugs and stars fiddling with the blanket thrown over Miles’ couch.

Miles looks at him seriously for a moment. He spends a lot of his time looking at Waylon seriously. For some reason, Miles can never come to any perfect conclusion for what Waylon is feeling. He can guess, but he never knows for sure. Waylon spends too much of his time trying to remain impassive that he forgets to let slip important traces of himself. Traces that will tell Miles if he's really okay, or if he's doing terribly, or if he just needs someone to ease him.

Most people are easy to read. They want to be easy to read, Miles learned. Even those who refuse the spotlight will present themselves for him. Miles is a licensed therapist, so maybe they were all cheap shots anyway. Whatever the case, Waylon has his fingers wrapped around a loose piece of string now and he looks one more beat of silence away from pulling until Miles’ whole blanket comes apart.

“I like rum and coke myself.” Miles tells him thoughtfully.

Waylon looks up, meets Miles’ eyes, and then away. It's quick.

“I think I’ve had that before.” He murmurs.

“Are you married to vodka?” Miles asks.

“Not necessarily.”

“Okay.”

Miles pours the rum in two tumblers sitting out for drink. Then he waltzes into and out of his kitchen without and with a liter bottle of diet coke, the silver of the packaging gleaming underneath can lights in the living room.

Waylon watches him pour. Miles can feel the programmer’s eyes on his back, and his arms, and his hands. Almost like he's being touched; Waylon is an intense person.

Small and bitter, but very determined in his smallness and bitterness. Miles appreciates it behind his veneer of professionalism.

“To your health?” Miles asks as he passes the drink over.

Waylon smiles a little bigger and shakes his head. “Not a chance in hell.”

 

* * *

 

By the time the two of them finally admit to being drunk, Waylon is too far gone even to walk straight.

They both wind up sitting on the deck furniture in Miles’ backyard. Miles has a good grip on his alcohol, but he can see his drinking buddy is listing dangerously where he huddles. Smaller and bitter now, Waylon is racing through sentences faster than Miles can fully comprehend them.

“You know, I was apparently two when my mom first started to think God was a myth. Or, I guess Catholicism in general. Being a catholic. She thought it was… she believed in it for her family’s sake. But she said she’d look at my dad sometimes and see how indifferent he was and it would get harder for her. I don’t know if she always believed even when she was a kid. 

“I never really believed in any of it. I was scared of God and the devil when I was a kid. I think everyone is, right? We’re all afraid of dying and disappointing the guy that can make your life… well, your death, a living hell.” He hiccups in between some of the words.

Miles nods sagely. He too believes God is a myth, but he isn’t exactly sure what it has to do with anything. 

“Yeah…” he hedges.

His glass is empty, refilled four times over. Miles knows when he’s reached his limit, and he’s reached his limit.

“Yeah?” Waylon asks, almost offended. “Yeah, okay, so… so I grew up not knowing to believe in anything really. When I was sick or sad or in really bad pain I would pray, but only when I was really fucked up. And then I didn’t think there was anything out there so I stopped praying. I used to cross myself all the time. And then, you know, in the asylum, there was really no time to think about God.

“I bet some people, all they thought about was God. There is no God. There is no God! You can’t sit there and tell me there’s a God when I’ve seen all the shit I’ve fucking seen.”

“I don’t think there’s a God.” Miles agrees.

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, smiley without the smile.

“Yeah. I bet – I bet you didn’t even care when you realized. I bet you were fine with it.” Waylon tells him confidently.

Then he burps and his eyes roll back in his head.

“Shit. That wasn’t even – oh! I had a point. Okay. So I wasn’t thinking about God when I was there, but I was thinking about the devil. And about how he worked through people and how he was everywhere God wasn’t. God’s a good guy, but I think he did a lot of forsaking. Not that we don’t deserve it. Or that they didn’t. Murkoff. They deserved a lot more than no more – no more heavenly love or bullshit or whatever.”

Miles wonders when it will happen. When will Waylon say what he wants to say? And what will it be? He has a way of going about things the long way to keep treading water, but Miles can see he's sinking. Or that he will sink when he finally spits his sin out.

It would be hard not to sink if you were Waylon Park.

 “Jeremy Blaire, that shit head. Piece of fucking shit. He was terrifying when I did anything I wasn’t supposed to. Even when I went to get fresh air, he looked so pissed. He made my skin crawl, like there were bugs all over me.” Waylon shivers a little. “I think there was some of Satan in him. He had no sympathy for anyone. He got off on what he did to those people. That’s fucking sick to think about. My point. My point is that I thought a lot about… God.”

Miles nods his head.

Waylon bends over double and starts breathing heavily. 

“Shit, Miles.” He whimpers.

It takes a few seconds, but Waylon looks back up and shakes his head.

“I’m so fucking drunk. I hate rum.”

Waylon said the rum was good when he started drinking. Miles told him it wasn’t dirt cheap, but not hard to come by either. They both hummed about it and then got down to business.

“Are you going to be sick?” Miles asks.

“I hate rum. It tastes like gasoline.” Waylon spits.

“Waylon. Should I go get a bucket?” He's looking greener than he did before.

Waylon shakes his head. “I can hold my fucking liquor. I’m just saying, it’s shitty liquor.” 

Miles smooths his hair back from his face and sits a little straighter but doesn't immediately move to get something in case Waylon does throw up. If Waylon thinks he can hold his liquor Miles won't undermine him. Besides, it's hard to get up. Much easier to stay sitting. Give his bad leg a chance to rest.

Throw up won't be the worst thing to end up in his grass. Or on his deck chairs, or even on _him._ Miles doesn't mind that much.

“Okay.” He says.

It takes a long few minutes for Waylon to start talking again, and when he does Miles is almost shocked he didn't see it coming.

“I think Eddie was possessed by the devil. Or a demon, or maybe just Murkoff’s own demonic bullshit.” He shrugs. “I’ve never seen anyone look the way he looked. He looked so… crazy. But not just crazy, it was like a crazy that was running on crazy. Like crazy on top of crazy. He wasn’t even himself. I saw him before. You know, in the Engine. He was fucking scared.

“I was fucking scared too and I – I didn’t help him when I should have. It was like a smack in the face because I just sent that email, too. I don’t know what they did to Eddie Gluskin. I don’t have any fucking idea. But it was bad.

“I don’t think I deserved to be there when he was like that. I don’t think anyone deserves that. But… I fucked up. I’m so… I don’t even know what to do with how I feel fucking ninety percent of the time, but I feel so…” Waylon shakes his head. “bad. Guilty.”

Waylon looks down at his drink and swirls it around some. Then he knocks it back and flinches when his Adam’s apple bobs.

“Tastes like piss.” He grits, making noises as he licks the burning feeling out of his own mouth.

Miles feels like he should say something. His heart tugs anxiously whenever Waylon brings Eddie up. Sue him, but he cares about Waylon Park. The guy is so fucking sad. He's so fixated on what happened to him, and Miles spent months upon months trying to dig him out of that, but it isn’t working. It's slow-going.

They are on his property now. There is no better time to say something.

“Eddie Gluskin probably thinks about you, too.” The words taste acidic.

Waylon is shocked at first. He squints at Miles. Maybe to see if he's joking or not.

“Yeah. Probably thinks about my dick in half.” Waylon mutters.

“I think he thinks about you. But I don’t think you should want him to think about you.”

“I know he thinks about me. He’s a fucked-up guy." 

It sounds like Waylon's trying to get Miles to say more by agreeing. But Miles doesn't have that much else to say. 

“You’re a fucked-up guy, too, but we’re working on that. I don’t know what else is out there,” Miles breathes in and out slow.

Waylon shakes his head. “Who gives a damn?” 

“It could be nothing. Could be we just die. I wouldn’t mind that. But if that’s true, then there’s no good or bad, there’s only good or bad to you. I’m good.” Miles laughs loudly. “So stick by me, okay?”

He has more important shit to say, but it's too late for him to really say anything. They're both drunk, anyway, and what he wants to say deserved a captivated audience. Miles doesn't know if he'll remember it in the morning. He hopes so.

“Yeah, be my good guy, Miles,” Waylon laughs back, “Be my guiding fucking light. Be my God for right now, okay?”

Miles laughs louder and harder, delighted sardonically by the idea of himself as any sort of altruistic guide. Miles knows what he is; that he's a piece of shit disguising himself as a nice guy to keep from losing himself again. He knows what he is.

“You’re staying over here tonight, right?” Miles asks after their hysteria settles.

“Yeah I am. Or, I mean I could walk home.”

Waylon stands and immediately sways back, hitting the brick wall of Miles’ house hard.

“Oh shit,” Miles mutters and stands to steady him.

Waylon chuckles and, after flinching just a little, moves into Miles’ touch.

“Okay. Fuck God, let’s go inside.”

**Author's Note:**

> i wish i had the attention span to make a whole fic with continuity and clarity. in the meantime, enjoy :>


End file.
